


A Little Less Hollow

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Possible Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Maeve dies, Alex pays Spencer a visit, but she doesn't know if he'll answer the door or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a backtrack of sorts, and after this I'll get back to Happy!Reid.

There were four or five gift baskets in front of Spencer's door. Alex knew that JJ and Garcia had been dropping by and leaving the baskets in case Reid decided to step out of his apartment and look them over. Some of the plastic wrappings had been disturbed, but not all of them. The chess set was under her left arm. If he didn't answer, she'd carry it back down to the car and go home.

She supposed she felt responsible. Guilty, somehow. She'd been the one to encourage the younger profiler to meet Maeve Donovan, to see where it might lead, and the image of the young woman being shot was an image she couldn't shake. She'd seen a lot in this line of work, terrible things that some people might not even believe. But even though she'd closed her eyes against the sight of the geneticist falling to the ground, the noise of the gun going off, she'd been crushed for Spencer and the loss of his hopes. Maybe that was why it haunted her.

The brunette shook her head as she reached the door, and she waited for a full minute before knocking. The sound of her knuckles rapping on the solid wooden surface echoed hollowly in the silent hall. No answer. Alex waited. She refused to prod him one way or the other. Several minutes passed. She thought she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. There was no peephole. She adjusted the way she held the chess set. That was what she had used to help him gather his thoughts when Maeve had first gone missing. 

"Spencer?"

He hadn't slept in nearly a week. He'd try, and then he'd dream of the pool of blood spreading on the concrete floor, or the way his heart had lifted momentarily when he'd thought his ruse had worked and that Diane would be taken into custody. How was it possible that in one moment, everything could go so horribly wrong? He knew Hotch and the others were concerned, that Garcia and JJ dropped by frequently to check on him. When he knew the hall was empty, he'd looked through some of their offerings. It touched him, but he was unable to face his friends, or the idea of going back to work. Not yet.

Spencer rested his brow on the doorjamb when he recognized Alex's voice. Solemn, bookish Alex, who'd gently urged him to see it through when it came time to meet Maeve, buoying him up when he'd doubted himself. Opening the door meant facing her, facing the reality that he was never going to know what might have been. But that cold reality was already here in the apartment. He felt it every time he took a breath. He could almost hear the tendons in his arm moving beneath his skin as he turned the doorknob. In the silence that followed, they looked at each other.

"Tell me to leave and I will."

Spencer thought about it, telling her to go. He was raw, too raw to talk. Emotional road rash. He was still in his bathrobe. The pajamas beneath it were light blue. His eyes flicked towards the case under her arm. He tried to smile, but it hurt, so he stopped.

"One game."

She winced, because his voice made it clear that he'd been crying. He stepped aside just enough to let her get past him, then closed and locked the door behind them. The baskets stayed out in the hall. Alex wondered idly if his neighbors would pick them over if the stayed out there long enough. There were rumpled blankets and a pillow on the sofa. Alex looked for a place to put herself while he gathered the covers from his makeshift bed and carried them out of the room. When he came back, she was setting up the board on the cluttered coffee table. He looked tired and about five years older. She knew she was only welcome as long as she didn't talk much, and that was okay. She'd never been much of a chatterbox. Sometimes she didn't even say the things she should say.

He watched her hands move without speaking, and it was bittersweet because he remembered that day in the park, the breeze ruffling his hair as they'd done that cognitive exercise. Alex had been the only one he'd told at first, until things went wrong, and she'd kept his secret, maintained her silence. Spencer rubbed at his unshaven jaw. Maeve was gone. He knew that, _had_ known it the moment Diane Turner pulled that trigger. In the Now, the profiler was one all-over ache from the knowledge that 'what could be' was now 'what almost was.' His jaw tightened as he set his back molars together. He would not cry in front of Alex.

Her gaze lifted towards his face, then lowered again. She wouldn't poke at the wound, not when it was obvious that several inches of skin had been peeled off of Spencer's heart. He would heal, she had faith in that, but the scar tissue hadn't begun to form yet. The chess pieces were in place. Alex looked up again, gestured towards the board. 

The younger profiler examined the board, and he could feel his clinical side sluggishly waking up. It pushed the lump in his throat aside. This he could concentrate on. He moved one piece, almost reached to the side to hit the button on the timer they used in the parks when he was playing for fun. She saw him do it, and her eyes were soft with sympathy, but she said nothing. He was indulging her by letting her in, and she respected him enough to stay quiet unless he broke his silence.

The game progressed, and the only sound other than the pieces being moved was that of their quiet breathing. Alex was a very good player, and Spencer appreciated that she didn't slack off just because he was in a bad way. He scratched his chin as he considered a particularly risky move, and the tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth, then disappeared. His left hand hovered over the board for a minute, and then he finally made his choice. He sought out her eyes, and her head tipped to the side as the silence lingered. 

"I miss her."

"I know."

He looked over at his bookshelves, and his brow furrowed. "I didn't even know her, not really. But I felt....happy when we'd talk. She was bright. And funny. She loved her job. She told me she loved _me_. It was an accident, a slip up, but she said it."

Alex could hear his grief, almost feel it, and she looked at her hands. She could remember being that hurt, that wounded. She looked at Spencer in profile. The chess pieces stood like sentinels, silent witnesses to their exchange. It seemed fitting. And _she_ would never tell.

"I wanted what you have."

He realized when he said it that, for now at least, he was beyond tears, beyond weeping. That was a relief. He could cry later, when he was alone, just curl up into a ball and let the tears flow. When he looked at Alex again, she was giving him a very small smile. He tried to return it, but it still hurt.

"I lost somebody once," she said, and although she was facing him she was also looking inward. "For one moment, I was the happiest I'd ever been, and then it was over. So I get it. It's why I came over." And that was all she was going to say about it. This was about him, not her.

They finished the game, and when he check-mated her she said, "I know it hurts. If you want to talk, or _not_ talk, I'm here."

He nodded, and perhaps he would try to sleep when she left. He was wounded down to his soul, and he knew it was going to last for a while. But Alex's circumspect words, and the friendship behind them, were a beacon in the gloom. Spencer closed his eyes, sat there in silence while she put the pieces away, then folded up the board.

He saw her out, and he waited on the threshold between his apartment and the hall for a moment, gauging what he should say, if he should say anything at all. 'Thank you for coming by' was socially appropriate. 'Thank you for caring' was perhaps less appropriate, but more truthful. The toe of his right slipper nudged one of the gift baskets, pushing it further away from the door.

"I grieve."

"So do I." _It's why I closed my eyes._

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

There was a long pause, and she waited patiently. Spencer's chest expanded as he took a deep breath.

"You...you could come by sometime next week. If you wanted to, if you have time. Call first."

The linguist nodded solemnly, tucked the case more firmly under her right arm. "I'll do that. Try to rest. And don't be afraid to dream."

He waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps, then closed and locked the apartment door. There was still a large cold spot in the center of his chest. But for a few minutes, a brief shining few minutes, he'd felt a little less hollow.


End file.
